It happened on a Tuesday.
The dusty old chalkboard at the front of the shop displayed yesterday's message in handwriting that suggested forced carelessness: "NO ANECDOTAGE." The g and e were crushed against the right-hand edge where Bernard had run out of room.
Bernard himself was predictably hungover. I didn't mind. He'd come downstairs when he was ready. I opened the shop by myself, surreptitiously hiding the sorry "clopened" sign that hung in the door's window. Bernard would find it later and hang it back up, but I didn't mind that either. Life in the bookstore was predictable.
I ran my fingers along the dusty spines that graced the shelf by the door, choosing a book at random and picking it up. Conan Doyle. Of course. I smirked, taking in a long breath. My gaze lingered on the worn leather cover for some time as my mind lost itself in the past. Which is why, I suppose, I never heard the door open.
"L?" a voice asked softly from the doorway.
I dropped the book. My immediate instinct was to back away, to run. I settled for wrapping my arms around my torso. Why now, I thought, after all this time?
I looked up slowly, dreading who I might see. But I needn't have worried.
He was taller, certainly – even taller than me. His hair was still a ridiculous shock of white against his chalky skin, gunpowder grey eyes punctuating his face. Near. I let out a long sigh, heart still pounding. Still, I kept my eyes carefully trained on the younger man.
"L," he said again, every centimeter of his features betraying surprise. He hadn't known I was here, then. Interesting. I watched his face as it morphed from shock, to sadness, to hope. "You're dead," he said quietly.
And you're me, I thought, but made no move to express the sentiment.
He stared expectantly at me. "Say something," he said after an intensely uncomfortable moment. "L!" Now anger graced his eyes. His face was like a painting.
I hunched my shoulders a little more before slowly lifting a hand to my throat. I placed one finger at the juncture between my chin and my neck, lifting my head so Near could see.
He swallowed heavily. I knew it wasn't a pretty sight. The scar ran in a jagged line from one side of my jawbone to the other. There are some beautiful scars in the world. This was not one of them.
"Is that from…" he trailed off, clearing his throat. "Did Kira do that to you?"
I nodded simply, tucking my chin back down where it belonged. No one deserved to see that gruesome memento mori.
"But you're alive…" he breathed. Hesitantly, he took a step toward me. He lifted a hand slowly. "Can I touch you?" he asked, ever so quietly.
I tensed. He saw it. He lowered his hand in a silent apology, eyes still aching. I carefully placed my hand into his. I have trouble with this now, I tried to tell him. But I missed you. It's okay.
He brought his hand back up with the encouragement, ghosting his fingers across the side of my neck.
"L," he breathed. Then all at once I was trapped in between his arms and his chest, and oh god it was so constricting, I couldn't see anything, I couldn't breathe – and he let me go. I scampered backward, shaking, until my back was pressed against the unforgiving corner of the wooden shelf behind me.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, looking scared himself. "I got ahead of myself. I'm sorry."
I tried catching my breath. 'All right,' I said, in sign language, repeatedly bringing one hand down onto the other. 'It's all right.' This was Near, I told myself. I was safe.
He moved back toward the doorway, giving me some space. "American sign language?" he asked in a tone that was far from conversational – but at least he was trying. I nodded.
'Used more often,' I signed, hands still shaking slightly. The syntax was wrong, but he didn't seem to mind. It was often easier and faster to sign out of order – and I was still learning.
It was easier to talk about American sign language than to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
He scrutinized my hands, and I repeated the phrase, knowing he'd understand if he saw it a few times. He nodded. "That makes sense," he agreed. He slowly bent down and picked up Sherlock Holmes from where I had dropped it earlier. A few of the pages were bent. He straightened up again, holding it out in offering.
"At least you caught your Moriarty," he said with the smallest of smiles. The corners of my mouth twitched in response. I wondered if I remembered how to smile. I grasped the edge of the book but did not take it from him, using the moment to continue to search his eyes. I could tell he had hundreds of questions. So did I.
A loud, gruff voice suddenly rang out from the back of the store. "Well, are you going to invite him in for tea or not?"
I jumped again. Near's eyes flicked to the raggedy bookstore owner who had evidently been watching our exchange for some time. I set the book down sideways on the shelf, freeing up my right hand to spell 'B-E-R-N-A-R-D.'
"Bernard?" the albino murmured to me.
"Come on," the hungover man insisted impatiently. "Ryuuzaki can explain what's going on. And I need tea anyway." He disappeared through the black curtain into the kitchen.
Near looked at me. I shrugged weakly.
"Tea sounds nice," he said. I nodded.
He cleared his throat once, then wrapped his arms around me again much more slowly. It felt… soft. I patted his back awkwardly with one hand. Near and I had never been much good at hugs.
When I pulled away a second later, I took his hand into mine. I found the 'clopened' sign where I had hidden it, and replaced it on the door. Then, with nervous trepidation, I led a man I had not seen in eight years into the kitchen of my home.